Spinner's End
by Sare Liz
Summary: When Hermione finds Severus seventeen months after the final battle in a muggle hospital all is still not as she would have hoped... HG/SS
1. The Last Letter

**Title**: The Last Letter  
**Author**: Sare Liz  
**Warning**: Angst  
**Disclaimer**: Not mine.  
**Series**: Spinner's End (First)  
**Note**: inspired by the fanvid Hermione/Snape Broken by jaysnape, found on YouTube. www. youtube .com/watch?v=Coo08nYKfGQ Also please note that the method of sending letters to each other was something I came up with in a previous fic, Indifference.

*

_I can't protect you._

_I can't protect you anymore, though it was arguable that I did a fair job of it when I was able, but I can't protect you anymore, and it is one of those little things that I should just put out of my mind, as there are bigger fish to fry, and if I'm not careful I'll end up in the cauldron myself. But I can't protect you anymore, and it is one of the little hooks that is tearing my heart to shreds._

_Doubt what you will. I cannot divulge anything at all to condemn myself nor clear my name. Your mind is not strong enough to keep such information sacred. But of one thing, never doubt, even though it be used to cement the case, either way. Never doubt that I cared for you. Never doubt that I wished to see my future with you in it. Never doubt that I wished our children to have your nose and your temperament. Never doubt I would have devoted myself to you, had I not already signed away my soul to each side._

_And if you can, in the years to come when I am certainly dead, for I cannot foresee either side allowing me to live, if you can, think of me and remember my most fervent wish for your own safety and wellbeing. If you can, in the years to come, forgive me._

_And know, if it be comfort or bane to you, that with you I found happiness, however briefly. I wish you nothing but the same, for the rest of your days._

* * *

The letter was delivered in the usual way, and of course was neither dated, nor addressed, nor signed. It simply arrived in the small wooden box that she had almost given up checking, as nothing, and nothing, and nothing had been there for so long. The days turned into weeks, then months. The hunt for the horcruxes commenced, but there was nothing. And somehow, she had expected something – after all, their… well, _whatever_ it was, she dare not call it romance, even in her head, it was quite intense for several months of the last year, and then… And then Dumbledore. And then, nothing.

And then, this. This letter. This letter that did not automatically immolate five seconds after she put it down. Nor ten seconds after, nor three hours later, nor six days, nor two months. With no date, no address, and no signature, and yet written in his hand, it tore her heart, and it left no room for response. She doubted she'd get anything in response. She refused to beg – it was useless. She understood why he refused to be utterly truthful, though she felt desperate in her need for confirmation of her own suspicions and hopes.

Of course, she was determined to make a response, but not now. Not until after the war, win or lose, not giving up hope unless she held his dead and lifeless body herself, felt his cold skin, his still heart, his dead weight. But that she refused to dwell upon. It may happen, may even have a high likelihood of happening, but she refused to expend the extra energy in worrying about it. Worry was not going to win the war, nor was it going to ensure that their children had her nose, and her temperament.

He was morose, and with good reason, but his understanding of the truth, Hermione reasoned, was not the only one. His view of the future was not the last word.

The End.


	2. Mr Smith's Mysterious Box

**Title**: Mr. Smith's Mysterious Box  
**Series**: Spinner's End (Second)  
**Author**: Sare Liz  
**Ship**: HG/SS  
**Rating**: PG  
**Word Count**: 6,857  
**Warning**: Some angst.  
**Continuity**: HBP compliant, and inspired by events in DH. A sequel to the short piece "The Last Letter" which would definitely be helpful to read before you embark on this one. I'm calling this series "Spinner's End"  
**Disclaimer**: JKR is the mother, she's got the rights. We just knock on her door and ask if her fictive children can come out to play. They'll be home by dinner, we promise.

**Author's Note**: I thought I was done writing angst. No more angst for Sarey. And then, I realize that life doesn't quite work like that. And so, I was glad that I had a perfectly lovely situation that was conducive to angst, and, as I so enjoy, the resolution of it.

* * *

_Where are you?_

_Are you safe? Are you well? Do you need anything?_

_Please respond._

_

* * *

_

_If someone has found this letter, and this wooden box, please – it belonged to a friend of mine. If you could just please jot down whatever you know about its previous owner and put the note in the box, securing the lid, I would be forever grateful. Don't worry about how I'll know – it's like magic._

_

* * *

_

_Where are you?_

_Please – please, my dear, my love, please respond._

_It's been a year since you gave up your memories. The Ministry fed us a line about corpses of some wizards who'd meddled in the Dark Arts too deeply, and that they simply disintegrate into nothingness, but I count at least seven ways you might have walked away._

_And the box wasn't among your belongings. I asked the portrait of Headmaster Dumbledore. He said you'd kept it on your desk for the longest time, but two weeks before you'd left you took to keeping it on your person, shrunk._

_He told me that you checked it, daily._

_I'm so sorry. I never wrote because I thought, that is I imagined you didn't wish a response, though I was determined to hope where you seemingly refused to._

_Did you hope, after all?_

_

* * *

_

_Where are you?_

_I can't do this without knowing, Severus. I don't care what they've said – you are a good man. I know it, Harry knows it, Albus knew it all along, and now the whole Wizarding World knows it. And they accept it. You've received the Order of Merlin, First Class, posthumously. But surely you must know that. Harry accepted it on your behalf – Minerva wanted to, but I convinced Harry he ought to do it, and then I convinced Harry that I ought to keep it._

_Please, I'm begging you. Please respond._

_Even if you don't want anything to do with me, with us. That's fine – I understand. I won't say anything. You know I can keep your secrets, Occlumens though I am not. But please, please, if you are alive, if you can possibly put quill to parchment or pen to paper, please just write that you live still. Write that you do not wish to return._

_It's understandable that you would not wish to return. It is, I understand that now, though I do recall a time when you expressed the wish that our children would have my temperament, and my nose. Still, the war changed many things, many people. I can only imagine how you must have had to harden your heart, my love. If what you truly desire is to be away, I will respect it, but please, please just tell me. It's the not knowing that is killing me._

_

* * *

_

_Dear Madam,_

_I confess that I write this letter somewhat reluctantly. I am not entirely certain what to expect of putting it in the box and closing the latch, but I shall do as you advise._

_I do not know who the prior owner of this box is. I see that there are two letters, perhaps initials, carved into the top, "SS" but I do not know for certain what this might indicate._

_But perhaps if I recounted the tale of the past few days it might make things clear for both of us._

_Three days ago I woke to find myself in the hospital. I have no recollection of coming here. That is, perhaps, the crux of the matter. I have no recollection of anything._

_The nurses have been kind. They have taken much time to recount to me what they knew of my condition when I arrived, exactly one year, five months and seven days ago. They tell me that I matched no description of any person declared missing, and that no one responded to the customary announcements made periodically by the hospital staff._

_Two days ago I was given what belongings of mine remained – apparently my clothes, along with several odds and ends were stolen sometime early in my stay here, after which the remainder of my belongings were put in a more secure location._

_This box, which was not originally reported among my belongings, was discovered after the theft – it was odd to think that a thief might leave something in return, though apparently he took a similar, but smaller box. No one could open it, however they tried. And I had no other identification._

_I do have a tattoo, however, which I suppose you may know about. I'll refrain from describing it just now, however. It is not the most pleasant picture._

_Among my belongings was also the most intricately carved stick of wood you could imagine and it feels very familiar, somehow, in a way nothing else does. I don't know why I tell you this, but since nothing else seems familiar, I thought I might, just on the off chance that perhaps I am this S.S. – but I warn you, Madam. Do not get your hopes up. For all I know, I may not be, and this box has been left by someone who was otherwise a thief._

_They call me Mr. Smith, here. Though they call most men who have amnesia this, they find it particularly appropriate in my case, considering the box, which they see as a sign._

_They see it now as even more of a sign, since I can somehow open it though they still cannot._

_Your letters were very distressing though somewhat confusing. I am very sorry for your loss. I hope that, whatever happens to me, you may find the person you are looking for._

_With all sincerity,_

_Mr. Smith_

_

* * *

_

_Sir,_

_I dare not call you Mr. Smith, for I distinctly feel that that is not your name. Though, like you, I do not wish to raise your hopes falsely._

_Though, if indeed the somewhat repulsive and slightly greenish tattoo on the inside of your left forearm sports the outline of a hideous skull with a snake issuing forth from the mouth to form a figure eight, you may in fact be the man I seek._

_Please, I do not wish to write more when I could visit with you face to face. Please give me the name of your hospital, and your room and I shall come and visit you forthwith._

_Best wishes for your recovery,_

_Hermione Granger_

_

* * *

_

_Headmistress McGonagall,_

_I think that I have found Severus Snape, alive, in a muggle hospital where he has most likely been since the war ended. It is a rather long story that I would like to relate to you in full, but in person. Might I visit with you as soon as may be?_

_All the best,_

_Hermione Granger_

_

* * *

_

_Miss Granger,_

_You most certainly may. This letter is a portkey, and the activation word to be used at anytime is 'Snarky Git'. And please, do call me,_

_Minerva_

* * *

Mr. Smith sat in the chair by his bed. Physical therapy had been grueling this morning and there would be another session this afternoon. He was due to be transferred out of the Long Term Care ward and into Transitional Care, but there weren't any beds free just at the moment. He didn't have a strong opinion either way, but the nurses and aides were kind to him here, kinder and friendlier than he would have expected. It was the sort of kindliness bred of familiarity, though most of that familiarity was built up while he'd been unconscious for the last 17 months.

Mr. Smith sat in his chair, a light blanket tucked in around him, and he wondered about many things. The kindness of the hospital staff, the softness of the blanket, the peace he felt, even though the psychologist told him that experiencing high levels of stress, anxiety and even depression were normal for people in his condition – Mr. Smith wondered about all of these things. He traced a finger along the grotesque tattoo on his arm, wondering what on earth had possessed him to ever think such an image desirable. Perhaps it had been one of the follies of his youth. Mr. Smith wondered about Ms. Hermione Granger, the woman with the beautiful name who sounded so desperate, who somehow was communicating with him via a magical box that delivered mail (and somehow, he knew mail to be associated with red columns and owls, though he wasn't certain why). She was the woman who described his tattoo down to a T, who called him Severus. What an odd name – who would name their child Severus? But then, he couldn't remember that either, and suddenly Mr. Smith knew what the psychologist had been trying to convey. But Ms. Hermione Granger and not the psychologist was the one who wanted to know where he was, if he was safe, if he needed anything. She was the one who called him, "my love," and she mentioned a great number of other people, of other places, different occurrences.

She even mentioned memories. He had given up his memories? Certainly that must have been metaphoric, as no one could give up memories. But then, mail wasn't supposed to be delivered via magic boxes, he was almost certain of it – so certain he'd decided to keep this from the obliging staff of the hospital. But perhaps if he had given up his memories, could they be returned from him? Or was that the 'magical thinking' that the psychologist had told him to avoid?

So many questions. So many things to consider. And it seemed that the answer to so many of Mr. Smith's questions lay in one quarter: Ms. Hermione Granger.

He fingered the letters she'd written, wondering in what order they ought to have been read. He'd read them over many, many times since he'd woken. Each time he tried to recall something that might be helpful or pertinent, but it really was like reading the correspondence of a stranger.

Only the piece of wood, that ornately carved stick that apparently belonged to him, it was only that one thing that felt familiar. Not even his face in the mirror seemed to be his. Certainly not the body full of scar tissue – he despaired of finding out how that might have happened.

He fingered the letters she'd written. The paper had such a rich texture, like something of a different time, and the pen strokes were so delicate, so beautiful.

He picked up his own pen and the paper that the nurses had given him when he asked and quickly wrote a note, not even thinking, or at least trying not to think. It was hard to imagine, really, what remembering might be like. He was afraid to try it, and he was afraid to stay the way he was. Ms. Hermione Granger might be a lifeline to him if she could help him remember. Alternately, he, Mr. Smith, might prove a nightmare to her, if he couldn't.

Providing, of course, that he was this Severus person, which also didn't seem right, but either way it was something he'd never know, written letter or not, unless he actually folded it up and put it in the box.

So he did. Closing the lid softly, he closed the latch with a soft metallic click. Mr. Smith ran his fingertips over the carved initials – for that is what he considered them, now – over the highly stylized grooves in the beautiful dark wood.

He wondered how long it might take for this Ms. Granger to arrive, how far away she might be. It was possible she was here in London, but perhaps not. She might be very far away, indeed. It might take days.

Mr. Smith settled himself into the idea of another week or so of the hospital's uninterrupted routine, including the physical therapy he so enjoyed, and wondered if one of the nurses might consent to bring him a book of some sort. He would ask them, the next time they came by.

* * *

Minerva had just called for more tea, many more biscuits, and Mme. Pomfrey to come and join them in her office. Hermione hadn't really known what to expect, but she certainly had hoped that the Headmistress would take this news well, and possibly offer aid.

It was hard to explain how she'd come into possession of the box, as it necessitated a much longer story of why Severus felt the need to give her a box that delivered letters and other small items in the first place. Which led to a story about their slightly secret friendship in her sixth year when he'd taken up the post for Defense against the Dark Arts teacher. Minerva had started scowling at that point and didn't let up until Hermione assured her, offering to prove the veracity of her statement with a charm, that nothing untoward had happened – there had been no romance and no intimacy of any sort. They'd been friends.

When Hermione blushed, however, the game was up.

It was at that point that she felt compelled to admit that she'd had something of a crush on him the entire time, and wondered if he might have felt the same, or something similar. Minerva pursed her lips and Hermione could tell that there were several levels on which the Headmistress did not approve, but the older woman was silent and allowed her to continue uninterrupted.

Hermione's eyes shone with unshed tears as she described what it felt like when she'd heard the news about the Headmaster from Harry – what Severus had done, and that though she checked the box daily after that, and all through the summer, there had been nothing. She was forced at that point to reevaluate their friendship and all that she'd known he'd done for them while they'd been at school. And yet, she admitted, she couldn't help but to think that there was something very, very large that they were all missing. She just had no idea what it might have been, and with no one to bounce her ideas off of, they soon went stale. Hermione had shelved them for the more important matter of the hour – finding and destroying the horcruxes, all the while making sure Harry stayed alive.

Hermione blushed again when she admitted that during that time Ron had been a great comfort to her, and that at times she let it go a bit too far than she actually wanted. It felt strange at the time, but crushes fade away, she'd reasoned, though this one wasn't seeming to do so. She thought that perhaps it might be wise to attempt to simply redirect her affections, though that had even less success.

And then, she explained, she opened the box one day and there actually was a letter.

The conversation continued and when Mme. Pomfrey arrived just in time to take the last ginger biscuit, Hermione was sharing Severus' letter that had arrived only that morning.

"Well, was it an Obliviate or amnesia?" Mme. Pomfrey demanded. "One's incurable, the other's a snap."

"We don't know yet," said Hermione.

"And we do have a great deal of his memories, you know, the ones he gave Potter during the war," Minerva added.

"No, no, that would do more harm than good," the nurse responded. "If he has been obliviated, then those are the only memories he'll ever get back. Do you really want him to have only those to dwell on? People have gone insane from less."

"But will you come?" Hermione asked. "Will both of you come with me?"

"You know exactly where he is?" Minerva asked.

"Well, not yet, but I feel certain he'll tell me in the response to my last letter."

"And when was that, Miss Granger?" Mme. Pomfrey asked, reminding Hermione that the woman had a gift to make every question and every statement sound imperious.

"Well, I wrote back to him this morning, directly after wrote to me."

"If he's in a muggle hospital with amnesia, how did he use an owl?" asked the nurse.

"Long story," muttered Hermione.

"Poppy," Minerva said, drawing up. "There are no serious cases in your wing at the present time – will you prepare your kit with whatever remedy you have on hand?"

"If it's just amnesia, I'll be able to tell rather quickly, and I've got just the thing. We keep it for serious concussions in Quidditch – should do the trick."

Hermione had been keeping herself all the while from compulsively checking the box, like she had in those first few days after the Headmaster died, but with the conversation suddenly turned to the prospect of his next letter, she couldn't resist anymore. And upon opening the box she saw the pale green piece of paper. She didn't even realize that she gasped.

Dropping the box to her lap, she read the short note, then reread it. Hermione looked up into the face of her old mentor, but she couldn't read the emotions she saw there.

"He's at London Clinic, Southwark. Long term care ward. Bed 7."

Mme. Pomfrey was already on her feet, heading for the staircase. "I'll be ready in 15 minutes," she said, heading away rapidly.

Minerva was on her feet and walking around the desk, heading for a side chamber as she called, "meet us at the front gate. And don't forget – muggle clothing."

* * *

She stopped in at the nurse's station and introduced herself, asking for directions to Bed 7.

"You're here for Mr. Smith? That's wonderful – do you know him, do you know who he is?"

"We think we might," Hermione said softly.

"But we'd like to find out," muttered Mme. Pomfrey.

The nurse's aide didn't seem to hear or didn't seem to care about the snide remark. "We normally allow only two visitors at a time, but why don't you go right in. Oh, he'll be so happy!"

"Not if he is who we think he is," grumbled the Hogwarts nurse before she was swatted by Minerva.

Hermione led the party down the hall and paused just outside the partially closed door. The two women behind her were silent.

She knocked softly on the door and pushed it open.

"Severus?" she called out in a voice that was little more than a whisper.

She took three steps into the room, and seeing an empty bed, turned to leave in confusion, only to find a figure sitting in the chair, unseen by a sightline from the doorway.

Hermione's heart dropped into her stomach. The pale, gaunt figure with long black hair and a full, though well trimmed beard, swaddled in a soft white blanket was unmistakably Severus Snape.

"Severus," she breathed out in happiness, oblivious of the twin gasps behind her. A moment later, he spoke.

"I believe you have me at a disadvantage, Miss. I neither know you, nor myself, it would seem." His voice was soft and somewhat weak, but unmistakable.

"Forgive me," she said with a smile. It felt like her heart was soaring across the skyline of London. "I'm Hermione Granger. And you, sir, are Severus Snape. Here with me is Minerva McGonagall and Poppy Pomfrey," she said, indicating the other women. She walked over to him, wishing to greet him, but not quite knowing how to go about it. The choice was soon taken from her.

"Severus, it's so wonderful to see you, dear boy," Minerva said, coming forward and leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead.

"Yes, it is good to see you," Mme. Pomfrey added, "but you'll not be getting any kisses from me."

Hermione watched as Severus grinned and raised a bemused eyebrow.

"Good Lord," the nurse muttered so all could hear, "he's smiling; he has lost his mind."

A little thrill ran through Hermione's spine when it was to her that Severus's head snapped with a question in his eyes. "I'm not supposed to be smiling?"

"I think you have a lovely smile, and you should smile exactly as often as you wish to."

"Yes, yes, yes," the instigator said dismissively. "But how are you feeling?"

"Weak from lack of movement. I cannot, for instance, remove myself from this chair without help. And of course, I can't remember anything, but other than that I am well, thank you."

"I'll be the judge of that," Mme. Pomfrey said, and whipped out her wand. She pointed it at the door and shut it gently and locked it, before turning it on him.

"How did you do that? What are you doing? What is that thing?" The rising panic in his voice was clear.

Hermione sat on the edge of his bed and reached out to take his hand in hers. His fingers tightened reflexively, then loosened. His eyes bounced back between her own and the tip of the nurse's wand.

"Severus," Hermione began softly, "if you don't start recalling immediately, and if Mme. Pomfrey can't help right away, I'll explain everything. But we must give her a bit of space to see what she can do for you. Please – I know you don't remember, but trust me. I would never do anything to hurt you."

They were all silent as the nurse muttered to herself, reading a magic none of them quite understood. Finally she put her wand away. Hermione continued to hold Severus's hand.

"Well, it's good news on several fronts. Best and easiest first: other than the memory loss, muscle atrophy and heart strength, there have been no damaging side-effects that I can tell. The muscle atrophy and heart strength are easily mended, though it'll take a solid fortnight. There's a cream to be applied twice a day and a potion that can be brewed within the next three days, though the treatment ought to begin together. Wouldn't do for you to collapse because your muscles could take you farther than your heart could support you. But in 18 days you should be right as rain."

"And his memory, Poppy?" asked Minerva.

"Yes. Well, the good news is that his was a natural memory loss, which I can cure." At this point she faced her patient and spoke plainly. "But it will be ugly, believe you me. You, sir, are going to go through a month of confusing hell, because I can bring your memory back, but not sequentially, nor in any kind of way that might make sense to you. Once every four days he'll need the Mnemosine Infusion, but it's my estimate that it will take a full month for it all to come back."

Severus cleared his throat before he spoke. "The doctors here said that the memory comes back naturally, most of the time."

"This won't interfere with that," Mme. Pomfrey said, her arms crossed over her chest and her face displaying a distinct lack of trust for any opinion of a muggle doctor.

"Well, then. Only thing that's left is to get you out of here," said Minerva decisively.

"Confundus?" asked the nurse.

"I thought we might manufacture a transfer order, nice and neat, and we'll just take him, wheelchair and all. With a Simulacrus, of course."

"Now wait just a moment," said Severus, speaking up quickly. "This has all happened rather fast. I should like a moment to myself, if you don't mind."

"Of course," Hermione said softly, taking her hand from his warmth. She glared at the two older women, but Minerva at least had already softened her determined gaze into something more compassionate. "We'll come back in one half hour."

"Wait," he replied, before she could even get up from her perch on the bed. "If you would be so kind to stay, Ms. Granger. I would like a word."

"Of course," she said again.

She watched him as they waited for the door to close behind them. On instinct, Hermione withdrew her wand and warded the door against the witches only, but not the muggles, making sure to ward against sound. She turned her attention to him, only to find something similar to the scowl she knew so well. Only, just at the moment he didn't look angry – but he certainly looked _**something**_.

His words came out stilted and solitary, as if each were its own sentence. "Please – tell – me – _**what**_ – is going on?"

Hermione had been preparing for this moment since she received his letter this morning.

"You, sir, are a wizard. I am a witch. We, along with an entire community of people, were able, from birth, to manipulate and control a force of the universe unaccounted for by physics or other natural sciences. For lack of a better way to describe it, we call it magic. Our community functions as a hidden society within the United Kingdom, and similar ones exist throughout the world. Those unable to manipulate magic do not know we exist.

"The two of us met at your workplace. You are a professor at the finest wizarding school in Britain. Until recently, I was a student. Your student."

She watched his brow furrow as he undoubtedly put a certain two and two together, but she marched on.

"With the exception of the last year, for the previous thirty or so, all has not been well in our world. While the political strife and wars of those without magic do not necessarily concern our communities, we have our own problems, our own politics, and our own wars. We recently won one. You, sir, figured in prominently. Next to two other figures, a man who might have been considered a general, had this been a military endeavor, and a boy, one of my best mates, who was something of a secret weapon, you were the most important person who helped us win the war. Without you sir, we never would have. You were a double agent. Severus, you were a spy, and you were very, very good at what you did – everything you did."

Hermione took a deep breath.

"And with the war's end, we had thought you dead."

"I'm not dead," he said absently.

She smiled a little smile. "Yes, I can see that." Then her smile evaporated. "But you see, I saw you die, along with two of my companions. You were attacked in such a way that would have killed most people, though clearly it did not kill you. You are a Potions Master, and given your natural gift at self-preservation, I never did believe that you hadn't made some preparation for the situation that ended up occurring. And when we couldn't find your body, later…"

"You kept looking for me."

"Yes."

"The letters."

"Yes."

"For seventeen months."

"And ten days."

"I teach?" he asked, jumping to the next subject, but not seeming to notice.

Hermione snorted with a grin, but remembered that he wouldn't get the joke. "Yes. For just under twenty years, I believe. Most of the time you taught Potions, but three years ago you taught Defense Against the Dark Arts. Two years ago you were Headmaster, and though I wasn't there I'm not sure you wanted the post. Minerva has been Headmistress since the war ended."

"How old am I?" Severus asked in disbelief.

"Not as old as you might feel."

"How old are you?" he asked with dawning horror.

"Not as old as you might wish," she replied sadly.

He looked like he wanted to say something and Hermione could well imagine what it was going to be. She gave him the time he needed to sort it out, though, biting her tongue and stifling the urge to prompt him.

"Many points of your letters were confusing. However, it is clear to me that you care about my wellbeing."

"Yes, I do." She had butterflies in her stomach. She was such a different person then she had been when she'd had the crush on him, only a few years ago. She'd dated someone else. She'd killed people. She'd saved people. Eventually, she'd even taken her NEWTS and graduated. She was in Auror training with the boys, though she wasn't sure whether or not it was worth it – the Auror department was a mess.

She was such a different person, and yet, she still felt something for him. But what?

And he was certainly a different person, though perhaps not for long. Who would he be once he was himself again? Who would he be in the month he wasn't himself? Would she even have an opportunity to find out, or would their paths be as divergent as they had been since he left the school at the end of her sixth year?

Her wondering took only a heartbeat, and then she was pulled out of her thoughts and back into the conversation that he was continuing.

"It seems from the tone of some of the letters that your care might run even more deeply than that."

"Your perception is not wrong, Severus." She sighed and thought about the letter she had from him, the letter from three years ago. It was in her pocket – she brought it along with his other letter from this morning.

Suddenly she was so antsy that she couldn't just sit. Hermione took to her feet and started to pace in the contained area of his private room.

"We struck up a rather unlikely friendship that year you got the DADA job. It was my sixth year. I was sixteen. You were in your late thirties." She turned in her pacing to look up at him, and catching his somewhat horrified countenance she steeled herself and continued on.

"You don't even understand the half of it. To all outward appearance you were a Dark Wizard – meaning you dabbled in things that ought not be dabbled in, and of course you _**did**_, but for good reason. And, too, you were seen as blatantly supporting the Dark Lord. It was known everywhere – even in the school. Especially in the school. And in a sense it was true. You were his right hand, Severus. Of course, he never realized that you had betrayed him years before.

"Meanwhile I was best friends with the boy who was prophesied to be his downfall. I was clearly on the side of light and you were erroneously but necessarily marked for the side of darkness. We couldn't be seen to mix – if anyone had discovered your partiality towards me it would have been a far greater crisis than had we ever become intimate."

"Then," he said slowly, as she paused. "We have never, as you say, been intimate?"

She half-smiled, feeling rueful. "I had a crush on you." She laughed at herself. "I had it bad. But," she said, looking back at him, "you were my _professor_. As much as I might daydream, I did understand the difference between dreams and reality. We were only ever friends and I never suspected anything on your part, until I received a letter from you the next year. I have it with me for you to read. Perhaps it will help your memory."

"Perhaps," he agreed quietly.

She paused, with her hand on the letter to add a bit of explanation. "But it may help you to understand that I wasn't attending school that year. I was elsewhere, doing something that needed to be done so we could win the war. You had become Headmaster, but not under favorable circumstances. It seemed to all that the Dark forces had taken over the school, though I understand you did your best to keep the children safe."

She watched as he twitched his head at that and looked away, but when nothing else came, she continued on.

"You were forever trying to keep us safe. We hardly ever knew it, and we were never grateful." She pulled out his letter with great care, feeling all over again the texture of the parchment, remembering the mixture of relief and anxiety that she'd felt when she'd first touched it, though now the intensity of those feelings was just a shadow of what it had been.

Hermione handed it over and watched as his eyes moved slowly across the page. She watched his brows knit together slowly. She watched as his chest began to visibly move up and down, and with greater speed. She could hear the parchment crinkle between his fingers as his grip tightened.

And then he gasped, and doubled over in his chair.

* * *

He'd been drinking. It wasn't something he regularly indulged in. He couldn't afford to have any of his senses dulled, not ever, but just this once he had poured himself a drink before he realized what he was doing. And worse, he left the bottle out on his desk.

He'd been thinking of her.

That idiot Gryffindor, Longbottom, had been caught out in class again. His strength of will was admirable, but if the boy only had slightly more finesse he'd be much more useful, and he'd probably last longer. He'd been in that silly, yet incredibly useful secret class Potter had taught two years ago – DA. He'd grown. He'd be good in the eventual fight, if the boy wasn't tortured to death first by one of his professors whom Severus had a difficult time keeping muzzled.

He remembered the days, not so long ago, only two years ago, back before he could admit even to himself that she wasn't a total waste of space, he remembered how she used to help to keep Longbottom from blowing himself up in class. He would take off points, and wish her to keep silent – how would the boy learn if he couldn't learn from his mistakes? But there were times, two in particular, that the mistake would have been deadly, and he'd been grateful.

Not that he told her, he thought as he filled the glass again and took another drink.

He never seemed to tell her anything of import.

He should have told her – not everything about Dumbledore, he wasn't that foolish or maudlin or plain stupid, but he should have warned her that something outside of his control was going to occur.

He should have trained her in Occlumency. She could have learned it in a snap. Then he could have told her more – she would never have had to doubt. He might never have lost her friendship. He might never have lost the opportunity to see if there could have been more in a few years when she was out and settled in the world, if some other boy hadn't turned her head in the meantime.

It had been such an odd time. Albus was dying and there was nothing he could do. There was a much larger plan that he wasn't in on– he knew it, he wasn't stupid – but the Headmaster didn't trust him that far. Draco refused to trust him, as well. Narcissa and the Dark Lord were the only ones who did trust him, though the latter's whims were getting deadlier as time wore on. And yet, and yet… He'd escaped the teaching of Potions. It was a small mercy, but a viable one. While he loved creating potions, teaching it to idiotic children who only wanted to blow themselves up in his classroom wasn't his idea of time well spent. And then there was the unexpected friendship of Miss Hermione Granger.

He took another drink.

Miss Hermione Granger. He'd wondered at the time what that moronic Quidditch boy had seen in her. How foolish he'd been. Miss Granger: the purveyor of stimulating conversation, challenging questions, and thoughtful silences. Miss Granger, whose timid smile stirred an ember into a fire, whose full grin lit up the dark of night. Miss Granger, whose company he'd kept far too often, and not nearly often enough. Miss Granger, with whom he'd known happiness again, and perhaps for the first time.

It was something he'd dearly like to recapture.

He snorted, and took another drink as the slow and familiar despair took over. Even if he were on his guard at all times, he wasn't going to make it out of this war intact. He was either going to die – in battle, or on a whim of the Dark Lord – or he was going to get kissed by a Dementor after the fact. His best-case scenario was the hope of rotting in Azkaban with his soul still intact until a somewhat natural death, possibly of boredom and misery, took him. Even with the memories he hoped to share with Lily's boy, he held no true hope of anything like a normal life. Not that he had a normal life now. In fact, Severus wasn't sure he'd know normal if it jumped up and bit him in the arse.

Here's to you, Albus, he toasted the portrait with his newly refilled drink, letting out a snort just before throwing it back.

Dead, soulless, or imprisoned for life. Those were his options once these things came to their inevitable conclusion. Where exactly in there had he expected to court Miss Granger's affections?

Court her. Was a bloody ridiculous notion. Court her – he couldn't even protect her. He couldn't even protect Mr. Longbottom, much less a student not present. She was likely safer out among those roving muggle-born catchers than here at school.

Severus contemplated that nightmare for just a moment and felt what remained of his heart shred. He had a momentary fantasy of having to smuggle her out of the castle, help set up a new identity for, to get her the hell out of the country, because if she stayed it would mean her life.

He shuddered and looked at the beautiful wooden box on his desk that bore his initials and some rather strong security charms of a questionable nature.

No. He wouldn't. It was a terrible idea. There was a reason he hadn't written her at all up until the present moment, and he wasn't going to write in the present moment, either.

Severus finished what whiskey was in the glass and poured some more, studiously ignoring that the level on the bottle was steadily depleting.

Severus remembered the moment – the long series of moments – with crystal clarity. He remembered how disgustingly drunken he'd become, so drunken as to write such an indiscrete letter and not even charm it for immolation. And he remembered the deep pain.

The pain of killing Albus, the pain of lying all the time, the pain of remaining servile to someone who wasn't even human anymore and had been utterly mad since they'd met, the pain of knowing he couldn't fully protect the children and that so many of them would be scarred for life, if they made it through the war, the pain was all present before him, even now, even sitting in the hospital chair.

The pain of deceiving Minerva and Lucius, each of whom he had considered a friend, the pain of keeping silent, always silent, ever silent – silent watching Voldemort's atrocities, silent watching his compatriots atrocities, silent as Albus refused his aide or his advice, silent in the face of accusation for things that he had in fact done… The cumulative pain of the deception and silence was incredible. How had been able to bear it?

The pain was overwhelming.

He opened his eyes, only to find it hard to see through the tears the moment before they fell. He was grateful that no one was here, but—

"Miss Granger," he called, his voice softer and weaker than he'd ever remembered, though that wasn't a huge span of time at the moment.

He felt a strong hand at his front, and another at his side help him to sit back up. He would never have been able to do it himself.

He looked away then, unable to stem the flow of tears and feeling slightly ridiculous for it. If he couldn't bear up through remembering this, how was he going to survive anything else? He'd lived through it, after all.

He'd lived through it, and they'd given him an Order of Merlin, and First Class, at that. That probably meant they weren't going to be calling the Dementors forthwith. And that meant…

"He's dead?" he asked softly, turning so he could just see her out of the corner of his eye.

"Tom Riddle?" she asked softly, having removed her hands from his person just a moment before.

"Who?" he asked, looking at her full now, confused.

"Voldemort. The Dark Lord," she added.

How many names did the man have, he wondered as he nodded.

"Yes. He's dead. Well and truly gone this time."

With her words a tightness in his chest was released and if he could have slumped back anymore in his chair, he would have.

It was over. It was over, and it turned out that he had a future after all.

The End.


	3. A Suzerain Arrangement

**Title**: A Suzerain Arrangement  
**Author**: Sare Liz  
**Series**: Spinner's End (Third Part)  
**Ship**: SS/HG  
**Rating**: PG13  
**Warning**: Resolved Angst, Adult Issues, one use of the ever lovely F word.

**Disclaimer**: The obvious characters do not belong to me, they belong to JKR. The name of the Thaumarasga Draught is mine, though the essence of it is, I am sure, not original. The Suzerain Arrangement… Well, it came up in OT class, back when I was in school, though not quite like this. The Suzerain Treaty is a type of agreement that is roughly 4000 years old. This use of it, however, is brand spanking new. I'm sure that the Dr. Fentress-Williams would be at least slightly amused at my utter perversion of academic knowledge in this instance…

***

She watched as he marveled at the viciousness of his queen knocking the head off of her bishop. She sighed and smiled up at him from across the table.

"I'm afraid I'm not very good at this game. I have a friend who is, and he tromps me every time – so much so that I rather avoid it when he is around. And it looks like your chess set won't allow me to play with them again, anyway." She gestured to the mutinous looking white king.

He'd been looking at her, ever since the black queen settled down, and just now he'd given her a bemused look. "They can do that? Refuse to play?"

"Well, their memory isn't that long – only about a month, I think. But if they remember you and dislike your previous losses, they can walk right off the chessboard. I've seen wizards berate them into playing, but that just doesn't seem right to me, especially when I know I probably won't lead them to any sort of victory."

He smiled and shook his head.

Hermione was just contemplating her next possible move, noting that one of his knights was poised in a most awkward way for her – he certainly hadn't lost his analytic edge when it came to chess – when she heard a knock on the door. She looked up to him as he sat in the comfortable chair across the table from her, all tucked in as he had in the hospital, but this time in a dark blue plaid blanket rather than a white one, and took in his expression. He clearly didn't know who it might have been anymore than she did.

She rose silently from their chess game and went to the door, pulling it open.

"Kingsley!" she cried happily, and hugged the tall black man as he stood just beyond the doorway.

"I wondered if you might be here, Hermione," he said, and there was nothing at all in his tone that belied his knowledge of her long-held secret, even though it would probably be a secret for not much longer. Once it became common knowledge that Severus was alive, and the story got out about his return to the Wizarding World, people would start to ask difficult questions. They would start making timelines. They might start making accusations. Though, that wasn't something Kingsley ever did. Or perhaps, she thought, it was just because it didn't matter to him. Kingsley had always been such a calming influence, partly because of his complete lack of drama about anything, including this.

Stepping back, she said, "You're here to see Severus, I suppose?"

"Indeed. Is he available to receive visitors?"

"I am," said a quiet voice from across the room, and Hermione wondered at the slightly cool tone, so different from how he'd been for the last hour, and really, just moments before.

"Severus!" he happily called out, as he strode across the room and offered his hand. "Kingsley Shacklebolt. We fought together in the war. I'm pleased to see that you made it out alive, after all."

Hermione watched as he shook the other man's hand and offered him a seat, the one she had previously been occupying. Well, she thought, he's clearly got his knickers in a twist over something and now he's given away my chair. I suppose that's my cue to leave.

"I should probably go," she said gently, catching his eye as his gaze softened.

"Stay?" It was just the one word, but it tugged at her heart, even as his open gaze seemed to hold her in its mesmerizing grasp. She nodded, wondering at his sudden shift in mood.

As she approached the only other chair, located at the other end of the table near Kingsley, she'd only noticed that Severus had pulled out his wand when he started to gesture with it, conjuring up a bright yellow and rather comfortable looking chair right next to his own.

When she looked up at him he had on a rather odd mask of innocence and she wondered what it covered.

"You remember the oddest things," she said, wondering what other charms he might remember.

He just smiled slightly, and when she'd made herself comfortable she was pleasantly surprised to find his open palm waiting on the end of her armrest. It was obvious that he meant to hold her hand, a prospect which she found rather exciting and also a tiny bit alarming. Severus had been shy of physical contact since he came back from the London Clinic a few days ago. Stranger still that he should chose to engage in such a display in front of someone else. Unless of course… unless he wanted very specifically to make such a display?

Still, Hermione slipped her fingers across the softness of his hand until her palm rested against his. She swallowed as his thumb gently and slowly stroked her own, even as Kingsley began to speak, explaining the purpose of his visit –partly social, but partly on business as well.

There were so many little details to attend to, Hermione realized, with Severus no longer considered dead. Hermione hadn't thought about all of these details, but apparently Minerva had begun to, and in the past three days since they'd found him she had been doing her own work behind the scenes with the Ministry. For the last year plus, Hermione had been consumed with trying to find Severus, and baring that, with wondering what on earth she was supposed to be doing with her life. Once she'd found him, alive and relatively well, she'd thought that would be the end of it. She'd thought her work – and really, all the work – would be done.

There was much more to it, Hermione was finding out. It was silly of her to think that coming back from the dead would be simple. In addition to the inherent difficulties of resurrection, the red tape might be enough to make you think twice.

He hadn't had a will, or any next of kin. His property, save what was at Hogwarts, had been taken – seized – by the Ministry. His belongings were still in storage, somewhere, which was a minor blessing. The sizable stipend he would have been given along with his Order of Merlin, First Class, which Hermione knew first hand to be 13,152 galleons, had been given to charity in his name. And his house, Spinner's End, had been sold.

Kingsley had come to report this. Thankfully, Hermione thought as her hand momentarily tightened around Severus', he looked like he had good news as well.

Kingsley reported that another stipend plus interest had already been deposited in a Gringotts vault with is name on it, as he pushed over a shiny, brass skeleton key with a little paper tag dangling off of it bearing a short series of numbers. They'd also owled Harry Potter, who had accepted his Order of Merlin on his behalf – at this Hermione swallowed and glanced over to the mantle, where it already stood in a lovely display box – and the Ministry was in the process of retrieving all of his goods, which would be delivered as soon as they were located. And about his house, Kingsley explained, they'd owled the new owners and explained the situation to them.

For the first time in the conversation, Severus halted the caress of her thumb. It made her look over to him. She noticed that he looked a bit paler than before and wondered if today hadn't been a bit much, perhaps. She'd got him back in once piece, but not exactly in excellent condition. She reached over with her other hand and took his completely in hers, which caught his attention. Hermione tried to ask without words if he was alright, but she wasn't sure how successful she was being.

"I won't keep you much longer, Severus. Merlin knows you need rest after what you've been through. But know that the couple who currently reside at Spinner's End will have gone by the end of the month, and the deed will be yours again. They say they've spruced it up a bit – they hope you'll like it."

"As I can't recall what it was like before, I'm sure I shall." His voice was absolutely flat.

Kingsley smiled and rose, announcing that he could show himself out, but that he was glad to be able to clap eyes on his old friend. He nodded to Hermione as he left.

Once the door closed, she turned to him.

"Are you alright, Severus?"

"I have a house." He was looking straight ahead, showing no emotion at all – something uncommon since his return from the hospital.

"Apparently," she said, not knowing what to say.

He turned to her finally, his hand in both of hers tightening momentarily. "You didn't know?"

She shook her head. It dawned on her that there were a great many things about him that she didn't know.

"I wonder what it's like," he mused softly.

Hermione wondered the same thing.

* * *

"I remembered I'm an Occlumens!"

She hadn't even gotten her outer robe off when he'd made his pronouncement, hot on he heels of her entrance to his small suite of rooms. He was sitting in his usual chair by the fire, but he was all dressed up as if he'd just been out, or was planning to go shortly.

"That's wonderful," she said sincerely before inquiring about his state of dress.

"I thought we might go for a stroll around the lake."

"All the way around the lake? Aren't you being a bit hopeful?" It was, after all, only day number thirteen from being out of the hospital.

"Mme Pomfrey said I was clear for anything slower than a stalk."

"Well, we can rest frequently, I suppose. And walk slowly."

"Indeed. Shall we go? I can describe to you the joys of Occlumency on the way there. You aren't an Occlumens, are you?" There was something puppy-like about his enthusiasm that was so unfamililar, and yet in the moment so natural as well.

"No, Severus, I am not an Occlumens. But I do know that you are quite a good one. A good Ligilimens, as well."

"Well, I don't know about that," he said as he walked toward her and reached for her discarded robes to hold up for her to slip back into. She wondered at his actions as the heavy weight of his hands stroked down the front of her shoulders, straightening and smoothing. Did he remember that he used to do something just like that for her after a particularly long conversation in his study back before the war was over? Did he remember that sometimes he would press a chaste kiss on her forehead before checking to see if the dungeon corridor was clear and sending her on her way back to the tower? Maybe he didn't remember. Maybe it was just the sort of thing he did, she thought, then discarded the notion, not being able to imagine him doing it at all, much less enacting such an intimate gesture for anyone else.

Her thoughts snapped back to the present moment when he held out his arm to her. Hermione gave him an arch look as she slipped her arm next to his. "You do realize that I may be supporting you on the way back?"

"Well, yes, but until then you will allow me to escort you?" He smiled. It was charming.

She smiled up at him. "Yes. I will."

"Excellent."

"So what parts of those Occlumens memories do you wish to share?"

"Well," he said as they struck out down the hall and turned down the stairway. It instantly redirected itself as they were halfway down, but in the particular instance, it made the route to the main door that much shorter in doing so. "I don't recall anything negatively associated with Occlumency yet."

Hermione's stomach dropped. As she understood the story, bad memories and other various negative associations were the entire reason the man practiced Occlumency to begin with. The various and nefarious negative associations, as she saw it, were going to be the next ugly shoe to drop. Still, she said nothing.

"No," he continued on, "I just remember the peace and tranquility of the meditation that is involved in the training and maintenance of Occlumency. The intense, yet gentle focus on just one thing, and allowing everything else to just float away. I tried it this afternoon before you arrived. It's just blissful, it really is."

"Really?" she asked, genuinely surprised. "That's not at all how they're teaching us in Auror training. We're supposed to be developing this mental armor, but so far that's proven pretty difficult for all of us."

"Mental armor," he mused, saying the phrase again, rolling it over on his tongue. "No, no I have no recollection of mental armor in reference to Occlumency, but then we both know my recollection is Swiss cheesed at best."

"So then, what's it like to practice Occlumency from this tranquil state?"

They passed through the front doors, having encountered no one but Mr. Filch and Mrs. Norris, the rest of the castle being at dinner in the Great Hall.

"It's like the Black Lake on a tremendously calm day," he said, gesturing off in the direction where the lake lay, off to the left of the slightly curved path they were taking to get there. "You know there are things underneath there – a giant squid and an entire village of merpeople, for instance – but you can't see any of that, you can't gain access to any of it. And yet, it's entirely natural for the lake to be in such a state on a tremendously calm day – so still and quiet you'd swear the surface was glass to glide over. And if someone tries to trouble the water, they can't any more than a ghost could. The surface is always like cool, clear, opaque glass."

She looked over at him, marveling. Even though she'd known he wasn't nearly as shallow and two-dimensional as Harry and Ron had always accused him of being, occasionally his depth took her breath away.

"That's brilliant. Did you come up with that?"

He shrugged, but then got a far away look in his eye. "I think Albus might have taught me."

* * *

The past several times she'd been to see him, he'd been rather down in the doldrums – understandable really, when you considered that the life he was remembering was his own. He spoke less and less about what he remembered, and was more and more vague when she politely and gently inquired. "I'm remembering my childhood," he would say, or, "I'm remembering old acquaintances." Gone was the enthusiasm of recalling skills and happy moments.

Hermione idly wondered if he had simply run out of happy moments to remember.

So when she knocked and entered, as was his standing invitation for her to do so, she was not entirely surprised when as he sat reading in his chair, he did not look up to greet her. 'He's returning to the Severus I know,' she thought, and further wondered if the man she'd been spending time with for the past three weeks wasn't perhaps always accessible, if not buried very deeply beneath this more melancholy, morose, and severe man.

With a fleeting inner smile, she recalled that she now had the time to find out if that was the case.

"What are you reading so intently?"

"A book of poetry," he responded, his gaze still on the pages before him.

She walked over to the other chair near the fire and draped her cloak over the back. "Shall I call for tea, then?" It had been their habit, after all, to take quite a substantial tea when she came to visit on the weekdays at this hour.

He only murmured a response that she assumed to be in the affirmative.

"Will you read aloud the poem you're looking at?" she asked after a moment of silence.

Without preamble, he began. "I must go walk the woods so wild, and wander here and there in dread and deadly fear; For where I trusted I am beguiled, and all for one. Thus am I banished from my bliss, by craft and false pretense, faultless without offense; As of return no certain is, and all for fear of one. My bed shall be under the greenwood tree, a tuft of brakes under my head, as one from joy were fled; Thus from my life day by day I flee, and all for one. The running streams shall be my drink, acorns shall be my food; Nothing may do me good but when of thy beauty I do think – and all for love of one."

Hermione sighed, feeling instinctively that however Severus may have identified with what he was reading, it wasn't because of any love _she'd_ felt for him, or visa versa. 'Well,' she thought bracingly, 'I may not have had all the details of the Tragic Life of Severus Snape, but I certainly knew it existed. And now we've got to deal with it before we can continue on.'

It was a bracing thought, and made her feel somewhat better about the silent situation she now found herself in. Unfortunately for Hermione, she really had no idea what actions on her part might be helpful, and which might not be.

All through the eating of the lovely stew and fresh baked bread that the elves had provided, she maintained her silence. It was easier to do than in years previous – she no longer saw silence as the enemy of knowledge, but rather she considered silence more like patience, which she had been told was the harbinger of wisdom.

And so she was silent, and patient.

In due course, once he'd pushed back his empty bowl and sat back clutching his tea cup with both hands, he spoke.

"I saw my house today."

Hermione blinked.

"They painted it lavender. I distinctly remembering it being a sort of dull, flaking grey. But they added a greenhouse, and remodeled the kitchen, among other things. You would like it, I am sure." There was a space of silence as he paused and Hermione still sat gobsmacked. For some reason, she imagined that they would have made that first foray together.

Now that she thought of it there was really no reason for her to have assumed that, but she had, nevertheless. And for reasons she wasn't fully keyed into, that he went without her hurt, somewhat.

"You wouldn't have liked it, before," he added, after the significant pause. He met her eyes and smirked in a way that seemed to express incredible pain. "It used to be that the fashion of the house mirrored the ugly memories it contained, but no longer. It is now the _paragon_ of the neighborhood." He looked away.

Choosing her words carefully, Hermione spoke. "I would have gone with you. I wouldn't have cared if it was a hovel or a manor."

He just silently shook his head.

"Regardless, in five days it shall once more be my residence. I suppose you would like the direction?"

"Yes. Even more, Severus, I would like to visit it with you."

"Saturday morning, then," he said, and she knew he referred to the day Mme Pomfrey had said he would be free to go.

For some reason, Hermione wasn't looking forward to it.

* * *

She hadn't known what to do, so she talked to Ron. In their years at Hogwarts her dear friend hadn't been known for his ability to handle himself with grace in relationships, but somewhere between their sixth and seventh years (such as that seventh year was) one or more of his brothers had 'taken him aside.' It was the only explanation she'd been given, but she saw the results for herself.

Ron, it seemed, had started looking at and listening to people – and not just girls he was interested in, but really the entire world outside of himself, and he started analyzing those things he perceived with the same focus he could give to a game of chess. In the past two and a half years, he'd shown a shocking amount of insight for one so previously dim when it came to human behavior.

Insightful or not, she couldn't go to Harry – Ron was her only choice. Harry might have gone postal at the incidental news. Of course, to get the advice she needed, Hermione would have to actually admit that she and Severus were in something like a pre-relationship, and had actually been friends for some time. Harry didn't need to know that just yet. Ron had just paled, swallowed harshly, taken a few deep breaths and gotten a faraway look to his eyes. A few moments of silence later, he said quite simply, "Yea, I guess I can see that."

Hermione almost leaned across the sofa and hugged him right there. She refrained long enough to explain her predicament: Severus wasn't himself.

Or better, Severus was all too much like himself, so much so that Hermione feared for his safety.

It had taken her ten days after his memories came fully back to himself to realize it wasn't her imagination, but when he claimed that he could care less if he lived in a violently lavender colored house with a happy white picket fence, Hermione knew that in fact, her intuition had been right for some time.

She gave Ron all the details she could think of, while protecting the man's privacy as well as she could. If it was a matter of keeping him away from the act of self-harm she so feared, the man could berate her later for her best friend having given her advice on the subject of keeping Severus from killing himself.

"You know," Ron said, "Mum's got a lot of sayings. 'Keep the gnomes out of the garden,' 'never trust something that you can't see where it stores its brain,' 'saving asparagus, vegetables are good for you.'" He paused. "I always wondered what we were supposed to be saving asparagus from, but seeing as it never found its way to our plate, it turns out that that will be one of life's greatest unsolved mysteries."

Hermione laughed at him, but waited for him to get the point.

"But she also always told us in one way or another that we needed to find something to love, something to believe in. She was always telling us in little ways that we've got to believe in something, or life isn't worth living. I always thought she was talking about what job to take – like Dad, or Bill, or Charlie, or really, Fred, too. Not so sure about Percy. You've got to love what you do – you've got to believe in it too, in a way, or you'll go nuts. I'm beginning to wonder if she was talking about more than just our occupations."

From the mouth of babes, Hermione thought.

Ron continued on, musing out loud. "Git though he was, I reckon Snape lived most of his life, probably all of his adult life trying to fight or escape this war – both endeavors any idiot could believe in. Not that I'm saying he's an idiot, of course. But now it's over. His mentor is gone. His tormentor is gone. He's not a spy anymore, which is great in a practical sense, but it did while away the dull hours, you know? From what you say, his job is up in the air. I mean, he's got his health, his home, and a bit in the bank. And maybe a girlfriend – but not quite."

"And quite a few job offers," added Hermione, eager to point that out as well.

"Yes, job offers he hasn't moved on, nor is he like to from the way you put it."

"True," she conceded.

"I guess my point is, what is there left for him to believe in?"

"Lots," Hermione pointed out sadly, surprising herself with her tone.

"Exactly. I know that and you know that, but I'm going to take a wild stab and say Severus Snape doesn't know that.

Hermione nodded. Belief was such a personal thing, such an intimate thing. Why, a person might spend years piggybacking on whatever hopes and dreams their parents had before deciding for themselves what worked and what didn't. Figuring out what fit, and what needed to be rethought.

Ron interrupted her thoughts, though. "So, you've got two choices. You can help him make his will, or you can help him find something to believe in."

Hermione paled. He was right, of course. She put her head in her hands and just let the tears leak out. "Any thoughts on how to do the latter? I'm fresh out of ideas, myself."

There was silence for a few moments before Ron spoke again.

"Everybody loves something, right? Even right gits like Himself. Maybe that's a place to start—"

This time she didn't hold back. Hermione leaned right over and gave Ron a giant, noisy kiss on the cheek.

"You're a genius!" she cried happily, sniffing away tears as she tore off the sofa and into the bathroom.

"I know, I know. It's all part of the Weasley charm, really."

Hermione, of course, was not paying attention to him just at that moment. She was splashing cold water onto her face and grimacing before reapplying a bit of eyeliner and some lip gloss. She fairly ran out of the bathroom after that, snagging her coat and calling over her shoulder, "Don't wait up!"

"Whatever, you love bird."

* * *

She found him in the greenhouse. He was sitting on the small bench in the far corner, and if she wasn't mistaken, he was wearing the same clothes he'd had on yesterday.

"Whotcha," she said softly in greeting.

He smiled slightly and briefly and continued contemplating the orchids.

"Have you brewed anything since you got your laboratory back, Severus?" Hermione inquired with as much innocence and passing interest as she could.

He shook his head in response, crossing his arms over his chest, continuing his inspection of the flower.

"I haven't asked much of you Severus – I mean, outside of the classroom, I haven't asked much of you at all in the entire length of our friendship. But I'm going to ask now, so I'd like you to consider well answering in the affirmative before you respond." She had his attention now. There was an eyebrow elegantly arched in her direction, but she stood firm. "I'd like you to brew me something. I don't have a preference for what; it could be hangover remedy for all I care. But you are a Potions _Master,_ one of the few in the world, and I am your friend. And I would like _you_ to brew something especially for _me._"

"And when would you like this special brew?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," she responded with carefully placed sarcasm. "Shall I wait as you consult your diary? Does Tuesday next work well for your entirely tied up schedule?"

He snorted and quirked the corner of his mouth the slightest bit, which was her hope.

"If you're not too busy, we could go shopping for ingredients right now. I can't imagine that half of your old ones have much potency left. Besides, when was the last time you stepped foot in an Apothecary? Or a bookshop, for that matter? Oh, you poor man. Let's go and remedy these ills immediately."

He got up and sauntered toward her.

"I see what you are trying to do," he said softly, looming over her, no more than a few inches away.

Hermione looked him dead in the eye, sighed, and lied. "Ah, my evil plan: take you shopping. I know I'm transparent, but come on – humor me."

He passed her and went out of the greenhouse and began walking across the garden toward the house.

"Shall we check your stores before we go?" she asked.

"No," he said.

Of course. He probably remembers what's in them, down to the last dram, she thought.

* * *

As magic went, it was definitely classified as Dark, but it was, in his estimation, a brilliant move. He never would have thought of it had she not insisted he make her a potion in her admirable but ill-fated attempt at dragging him from the doldrums.

If only his state of mind could be so lightly classified.

This time, of course, he was doing it properly. He'd made a will. He'd figured out how to get around the rather strong promise he'd made Albus all those years ago not to do himself in. Poison was the logical choice, and the cleanest method for her to find and dispose of afterwards – it was the least he could do after all she'd done for him. It was the least he could do, but he'd be doing a great deal more.

It was hard to come by a quick acting poison that he hadn't built up at least a partial immunity to, but that was all subject to his magical ability. If he were to, say, lose that ability… in that case he would be as unprotected as a muggle ingesting such a draught. He would be killed instantly, no muss, no fuss.

The lack of mess was the least Severus could do, knowing just how physically messy death can be. Slightly higher up on the scale of what lay in his power was leaving his worldly possessions to her in his will. Highest on the scale of what he was able and prepared to do was giving her his magic. And that was where the Dark Arts came in so handy.

He mused, as he slit his wrist and let four drops of blood plunk into the small silver cauldron, what effect a willing donation of the blood of the victim without any mind altering spells would have on the end result of the potion, not to mention the fact that the victim was the potionmaker. He doubted it would have any effect at all – it seemed the sort of brew that might only get nastier in such a case, and he'd never read of any precedent in such a case. Perhaps Hermione would see fit to eventually write up the incident and submit it to Ars Alchemia, he thought in wry amusement. Too bad the experiment is so costly to repeat, to mention nothing of legality.

Letting it simmer for ten minutes, he tended to the brass cauldron. The poisonous liquid in this one was simple and elegant. Ironically the main ingredient was Nagini's venom – he thought it a poetic bookend, really. The entire time between the last instance he'd had the venom coursing through his veins and this next one he was looking forward to seemed like an odd and unreal time out of time. It was as if he were a ghost, a wraith returned with just enough power to set his affairs in order, just enough energy and verve to right a few choice and very small wrongs, and now that he'd done that there was almost not enough energy to do what must be done to end it.

But Nagini's venom was the stroke of genius. It may be that they wouldn't even be able to differentiate it from what was already left in his system, for even now there was some, a tiny trace amount. He paused in his musings for a moment, wondering if that lingering amount might be enough to kill him the moment his power was transferred to Hermione. That was rather a lovely thought. But either way, as the wizard he was currently, the poison in the brass cauldron wouldn't be enough to kill him– ill for weeks, yes, death, no. But as a muggle? It should do the trick neatly.

And then, blessed peace.

Tom Riddle had always wanted to live forever, but for the life of him, Severus Snape never could understand why.

* * *

"What is it?" she said, smiling shyly up at him. It warmed his heart to see her like this, but he just didn't have it in him to smile back as he so frequently had in the last month or so.

"A gift. I put everything I had into that potion." He caught and chastised himself for the small blunder. He shouldn't say things like that. She might catch on.

"Will it taste nice?"

"I seriously doubt it."

"Can I drink it now?"

"I can't imagine a better time."

He watched as she upended the phial as it was pressed against her lips. No sooner than she had drunk it down did she pull a face. It didn't surprise him that his magic would taste awful. Still, it would be useful for her. More useful than it would be to him in about an hour. And Merlin knows he'd made it enough times for the Dark Lord to have memorized the recipe. It was really quite lovely to make it as a gift for someone so wonderful who wasn't expecting it, rather than a power-hungry megalomaniac who did expect it, or else.

"So what is it supposed to do?"

"Touch me, and you'll see."

She gave him a little look. He hadn't let her see the ingredients, or come down and keep him company as he brewed. He'd never consulted a single book. Severus knew perfectly well it was eating her up, the not knowing, but that would end soon. He held out a hand to her, and felt her warm fingers slip into his palm. He felt a tingling, and a wrenching. He heard her sharp intake of breath, and then her scream. He'd seen this transfer happen at least a dozen times, but it was always quiet, sharp and completely anti-climatic. It was not like this.

His last thought before he lost consciousness and joined Hermione on the kitchen floor was, 'It wasn't supposed to happen like this.'

* * *

He woke with a groan, his eyes peeling open with pain. As he shifted slightly, he realized that every cell in every muscle hurt just slightly. Combined into one ache it was quite powerful. It would have been lovely if he'd had a split second of confusion as well, just a single solitary moment of not remembering what he had done, but there was no such reprieve.

Severus crawled over to her, sprawled on the tile, and reached a hand over to her neck to feel for a pulse, sighing deeply when he felt a strong steady thumping beneath his fingertips.

"Hermione," he called, and called again. There was no response, however.

He lay back down on the floor, staring at the ceiling and took the opportunity to take a deep breath and wonder what on earth he'd done. He went over each step in his head, the ingredients, the timing, the blood – and then of course, he knew. In his depressed state he'd glossed over the fact that while the method of gathering blood doesn't matter for many dark uses, it did matter for some, and of course it would matter for this one. He'd rationalized it away at the time. But it really was the only part of the brewing that was changed. It was the only thing that could have gone wrong.

But he knew so much about the _Thaumarasga_, and he'd never heard anything about the method of collection being a factor. Then again, who would volunteer to have their magic stripped away? Who, that is, other than himself? It was true that he'd never come across a reference to the method of collection mattering in this particular potion, but he knew full well that that sort of information wasn't always readily available.

He closed his eyes and swore softly. What had he done? _Oh, God, what had he __**done**__?_

After one last melancholy thought of how he'd assumed his life could get no worse, Severus dragged himself upright and stretched, eyeing the prone form of the one person who seemed to give a damn in his world. Without another thought he stooped and picked her up. It wasn't a graceful thing, the fireman's carry, but she was unconscious and on the hard tile of the kitchen floor when she could be on a soft mattress where it would be easier to tend to her. Once situated over one of his shoulders, it was only the narrow flight of steps up to the first floor that proved difficult, but he navigated them without incident. Laying her down and arranging her for comfort on one side of his bed he sat next to her and checked her pulse again. Still steady and strong, he left her for a moment to go back down stairs.

Once in the kitchen he put the pot on to boil and set out some tea things to take back upstairs. Her wand lay half under the cooker, having come loose from wherever she normally secured it, up her left sleeve, he remembered, and so he picked it up, meaning to put it on the tray to go upstairs. She would undoubtedly need it, and it was best not to be too far from your wand, he thought, even as he remembered where he had intentionally left his own, next to the cauldron full of poison in the basement laboratory.

But even as he picked up the wand he felt a tingling that unnerved him. It was the same sort of tingling he'd felt the first time his mother had brought him to Olivander's to be fitted for a wand.

Oh damn.

Holding onto the light colored wood with the winding vine carved in relief around the grip, he cast a simple lumos aloud, half afraid that nothing would happen, half afraid that something would.

What happened shocked him.

Severus was used to his own magic. He was used to the feeling, like one might be used to the feeling of wearing a favorite shirt, or comfortable boots. He knew what it felt like to be depleted, and had rather expected to be feeling that on a grand scale just about now. What he felt was different. It wasn't the old comfortable boots of his own magic, nor was it the naked feeling of none at all. But it was magic, and it was strong. His simple _lumos_ had come out something like a _lumos maxima,_ or even a_ lumos solem._

Though it was an understatement to say that he didn't know exactly what was going on, it was very clear to Severus that he was now wielding someone else's magic with someone else's wand, and if the sinking feeling in his gut was to be trusted, he'd somehow massively fucked the situation up. He probably wouldn't be certain until later, but the only answer he saw was Hermione. He had somehow stolen Hermione's magic. Had the potion's effects been utterly reversed, or was there more?

Still stunned by the gravity of his own actions, he recognized the sound of the water boiling and mechanically made tea. As it steeped in the pot, he realized that he'd stowed Hermione's wand up his own left sleeve, as was his wont. Except of course, it wasn't his wand. Somewhat repulsed by his own actions, and snapping out of his momentary daze, he quickly removed her wand from his sleeve, but held onto it. Swiftly he descended the stairs to his laboratory and picked up his own wand, though not with his dominant hand. That was the hand that still held Hermione's wand, with which he Vanished and cleaned the cauldron full of poison. The toxic brew was useless to him now, as he still obviously had some magical power, though exactly whose was yet to be determined. And besides, he had a number of things to do and understand before he was ready for any type of decisive action of that sort.

He paused for a moment and sighed, realizing that he might not get to do away with himself using his preferred method. Still, you couldn't go wrong with a knife to the vitals. He would need to brainstorm different possibilities until he came up with the one he liked most, but he would have plenty of time to do that later, after he'd assured himself that Hermione was quite alright.

As Severus climbed the stairs back to the kitchen he had a momentary pull of instinct and switched the wands in his hands. He tried to cast a lumos with his wand, but nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. His life, he decided in that moment, was perverse.

Coming back to the kitchen, he put both wands on the tray and for a moment was struck by how they looked, lying there together. It wasn't every day that you saw multiple wands that had seen any use at all, just lying together. It was quite remarkable, to see the both of them, and how they contrasted each other. His a dark wood, hers a light one, his so structured with clean solid lines, her so whimsical and natural, but then, both wands had cast unforgivables, both wands had killed people, his many more so than hers, but still.

Still thinking about the juxtaposition of their wands, he brought the tray upstairs, relieved beyond words to find her sitting up on his bed.

"Severus, what on earth was that?"

He set the tray down next to her on the bed. "I'll tell you in just a moment. First I want to make sure you're alright. Please take your wand and cast a spell."

She looked at him, a question in her eyes, but did as he bade. "_Wingardium Leviosa,_" she said, levitating a miniature of his mother off his dresser before she flawlessly put it back down again. She raised her eyebrows as she stowed her wand in her sleeve.

"Now, if you would be so kind as to satisfy my curiosity," he said, handing her his own wand. He watched her mouth drop open.

"Severus, what do you mean by this?"

"Please, Hermione."

She gave him a decidedly nervous glance before casting the same charm on a set of robes that were draped over a chair. The robes went flying toward the ceiling and Hermione gasped audibly. She dropped his wand as if it scalded her.

"Is that what it is always like for you to do magic?"

Severus took another deep breath. "No, I daresay. But it seems similar to the effect I had with your wand, when I attempted a simple spell in the kitchen." He paused, and continued on, though quietly. "But unlike you, I had absolutely no effect with my own wand."

"We… I… You…" She stopped and looked away before taking her wand out and putting it between them, next to the place where his dark one landed. Looking back again, she started fresh. "So the potion somehow altered both of our magic abilities such that they are now stronger, and require us to use the other's wand?"

"Apparently, though I somehow doubt that will be the end of the effects," he said, just waiting for the other magical shoe to drop. It was a dark potion, after all, and it seemed already that Hermione had the upper hand in the situation. It was she who could do magic with both wands, though admittedly she could channel a stronger magic with his than with her own.

"What do you mean, _'Apparently'?_" she asked, her voice a crescendo of unrest.

"These are not the intended effects of the potion I meant to create, though I think I may know where I went wrong," he said, not intending to go any further in explanation, not even under threat of torture. There were some things she didn't need to know about until after the fact, and his botched attempt at suicide was one of them.

He watched as her eyes narrowed. She shifted on the bed so she could fully face him. "Severus Snape," she began, her voice barely a whisper, "I want you to tell me exactly what you meant to brew and how exactly you think it went wrong, and I want absolutely no prevaricating!"

There was a twinge inside of him, like a switch being flipped, a switch he hadn't known was there, and he found himself very suddenly willing to tell her precisely what had happened. He remembered his vow of only a moment before not to do the same, and he remembered how adamant he'd been, but clearly she needed to know. He understood that now. If she needed to know, who was he to keep it from her?

"It is a draught known as _Thaumarasga._ I've brewed it seventeen times previously for the Dark Lord. It is an ancient potion used by the Assyrians as punishment for treachery among wizards. It strips a wizard or witch of their magical power and gives it to the wizard who consumes the potion. It cannot be used to give magical powers to a muggle. Though the ingredients are nearly all readily available and the brewing time is short, it is a draught that requires great skill and intent on the side of the brewer. It is a class A restricted substance, and illegal in 49 countries, including the United Kingdom.

"I knew something was wrong when we both had such a strong and painful reaction – I've seen the potion administered many times and pain is, ironically, never an element.

"I believe, though I have never seen it documented, that my willingness in providing my blood for the potion, and possibly the fact that I brewed the potion myself, was instrumental in changing the essence of the _Thaumarasga._ I do not recognize what potion it may have turned into."

Severus felt strangely better for having told her, even as he watched the emotions flit across her features.

She shifted so she was now sitting on her knees on his bed. She looked livid.

"Do you mean to tell me," she began to ask slowly and quietly, her eyes on fire. "Do you mean to say that when I asked you to brew me a potion, you brewed me the _Thaumarasga_, with the intent that you should be stripped of your magical abilities and that they be given to _me?_"

"Yes."

"Please tell me why you decided to do this," she asked, enunciating each word very carefully. If there was a state of anger beyond livid, that was where she was.

"I wished to give you everything I had before committing suicide," he said, and was so wrapped up in the conversation and her emotion that he didn't bother to think of the veritaserum-like quality to the moment, though he would later.

"_**WHAT?"**_

"You are the sole benefactor of my estate, but I wished to give you my magic as well before I died."

Her eyes could not get rounder.

"And just how did you plan to kill yourself?"

"I had a poison prepared that once stripped of my magical ablity, would be a powerful agent to act upon me. I've since gotten rid of it."

"And why have you done that? Have you decided not to kill yourself after all?"

"No, but now is no longer a convenient time, and the poison would not have the desired results, as I still have the use of magic."

"Not a convenient time? Oh dear. How tiresome for you."

Her sarcasm was not lost on him. If the situation had been otherwise, he might have been able to appreciate it more. The situation being what it was, however, he was more concerned with the anger coming off her in waves.

"Severus Snape, you listen, and you listen good. I think it's absolutely horrible of you to give into whatever difficult feelings you're dealing with and try to do away with yourself. I realize that it is your life and I don't get a say, but for what it's worth _I absolutely forbid you from killing yourself._ Do you understand me?"

"Yes," he said, and suddenly, gently, his despair was not so deep as to merit self-destruction. It was plenty deep and rather dark, but not as much as it had been. He didn't bother to wonder about the sudden change however – who could question something that felt so normal, so natural?

* * *

She felt all of her emotion drain out of her – that wasn't normal. Usually when she got worked up she stayed agitated for hours if not days, but as fast as her outrage and fury had built, it ebbed. She sat back on her heels and hung her head down, noticing for the first time the tray of tea things that she'd been practically hanging over, in her rage. She handed Severus her wand without looking at him.

"I think you'd better take this, at least for the time being."

She didn't see, but he took it without comment. She picked up his wand, turning it about in her hands. "I'll keep this for a while, if you don't mind." She gently stowed it in her sleeve, noticing the difference in how it sat, even while it felt comfortable there. She took a good look at the tea tray before picking it up off the bed and putting it on the side table opposite to where he was. She walked on her knees across the mattress until she was at the very edge where he still stood, had been standing all this time. Hermione rested her head against his chest and put her arms around his waist, holding him loosely.

"Severus," she sighed sadly.

She felt his arms go around her shoulders and she took a deep breath, holding it until her lungs burned before letting it go again. She stayed there for a long while, kneeling on the edge of the bed, holding and being held, feeling nothing at all, until unbidden, the tears began to prick in her eyes. She didn't care – she wasn't ashamed. The man she adored had tried to kill himself. If this wasn't a crying moment, then there weren't any at all left in this post-Voldemort world. She took one more jagged breath before starting to weep silently, still and unmoving, except for the tears leaking out of her eyes, faster and faster.

She looked up when he removed his arms from around her shoulders. She watched as he shrugged out of the black set of robes, as he took of his confining suit jacket, and toed out of his black dragon leather boots. She shifted over as he sat on his bed, his back braced against the headboard and when he opened his arms to her, she came to him silently, curling up next to him, sniffling.

He handed her a hankerchief, which she gratefully used before leaning up against his shoulder. They were quiet for a very long time.

* * *

"Severus, I think it may be true that you have no idea how much I love you."

It was the first thing that broke the silence of what must have been at least three quarters of an hour, sitting on the bed holding each other.

"You may be right."

She looked up at him, seeing the tracks of his own dried tears down his face.

"Severus, I love you. I should like to spend the rest of my life giving you example after example of just how much I love you, but that seems to me to be a pointless endeavor if you can't appreciate the bare fact of it in the present moment."

She watched as he closed his eyes tightly for a moment before opening them again and meeting her gaze.

"I…" he began, before trailing off. "It is not easy, Hermione, to have lived the bliss of a man with no past, and then to be confronted with the particular past I have created for myself. You know well enough what a bastard I can be without provocation. I think it may be true that you have no idea what a bastard I can be, with provocation."

"Perhaps that is true, Severus, but it comes as no great shock to me, either way. And that man you were with no past? That man is still inside you. You are capable of all that, and more, should you decide to explore it."

"I want to believe you, Hermione," he whispered. "I really do." He left unspoken the fact that he didn't believe her, despite his own desire.

"Give it time, Severus. Give yourself time. Don't write yourself off now, just because it's hard. It won't always be this hard, not if you don't want it to be."

"I don't want it to be," he replied in that same whisper. She watched him, and it seemed he had more to say, so she waited. After some moments, he continued on. "Will you stay with me tonight?" He rushed to add, "I don't mean… I mean, I intend nothing untoward, I just… will you?" he asked, his last words barely audible.

Hermione felt the urge to smile for the first time in the past hour. "No matter what your intentions, I will happily stay with you tonight, Severus."

It took a moment for him to process that, she could see it on his face. She wondered if it would go by entirely unnoticed.

"You… don't mean-"

"Don't I?" she asked, looking up at him from her vantage point at the middle of his chest. She was suddenly quite aware of her left hand on his chest, and her right lying casually on his upper thigh. She hadn't really noticed them there before, when she was crying, when they were both crying.

"I would never wish to take advantage of you like that."

"I'd hardly call it taking advantage, Severus. I'm pretty certain how I feel about you. I'm also pretty certain that somewhere inside you feel something similar. If it weren't for the war, I daresay we'd have been far more intimate than we are now, and much sooner. As it is, I think we're going along at just the right pace."

She watched as he leaned down and her heart seemed to stop as he brushed his lips over hers ever so briefly before pulling back up again and resting his head against the bed frame.

"Whatever did I do to deserve you?" he whispered up into the air.

She smirked. "Well, there was that time when you stepped between me and Professor Lupin when he was having a bad night."

He snorted.

"Seriously, Severus. I really don't think it's a matter of deserving or undeserving. It just is. We've all got our chances at love."

He looked back at her and she saw something in his eyes that she hadn't seen in several weeks. "Then this is one chance I shall not throw away."

She grinned back. "That's the spirit," she said just before he bent down again, this time for a longer, deeper kiss.

* * *

They were in the midst of a rather compromising position when the first owl came and dropped a letter onto Severus' naked back before wheeling away again with nary a hoot. It slid off and was soon forgotten.

Hermione and Severus were in the midst of a completely different, and yet no less compromising position some time later when the second owl arrived, winging in through the open bedroom window to deposit a similar letter onto Hermione's calf, a corner of the missive hitting the straining muscle and making her look sharply around and exclaim loudly in surprise before her attention was inextricably drawn back to the matter at hand.

The third and final letter came even later when all common sense would have dictated that compromising positions would have ceased, and yet they had not. It was nearly an hour after the last letter had been delivered that Hermione rolled over onto it, recalling to mind the oddity of mail being delivered at such a time of day. She turned the letter over to reveal the singular insignia of the Ministry of Magic.

"Oh, dear Lord," she groaned. "What on earth can they want?"

"Who?" rumbled her beloved.

Hermione grabbed for Severus' wand as it lay on the bedside. "Accio recent Ministry letters." The other two flew into her hands.

Severus groaned. "I'm sure I don't want to know what they say."

"Which do you suppose was sent first?" she asked him, gazing at the identical letters.

Severus reached for Hermione's wand, which he'd stowed underneath his pillow. He cast a silent spell and then pointed out the order in which they'd come.

Wands stowed, he watched as she opened the letter, and she could feel him reading it over her shoulder, even as she examined the letter herself.

_Dear Mr. and Mrs. Snape,_

_Congratulations on your recent marriage._

_I regret to inform you that the Suzerain Agreement that took place at 5:43 P.M. GMT which was consummated and summarily altered to become a Suzerain Arrangement at 7:23 P.M. GMT that has taken place on this date at Spinner's End, Slough, without prior licensure from either the Ministry of Magic Department of Records, nor the muggle counterpart is in direct violation of the applicable sections of the Wizarding Customes and Laws of the United Kingdom which outlaws secret marriages and unequal bonds of power (see sections 204.b.34, 713.w.2, and 67.g.243). In addition, use, if not manufacture of the Suzerain Draught, a class A restricted substance, is in direct violation of the International Wizarding Accord Against the Use of Dark Arts._

_Please stand by as Aurors have been dispatched to seize your wands and remand you into custody, where your marriage will be immediately witnessed and documented, your wands will be broken, your powers bound, and where you will await trial._

_Thank you and have a pleasant evening,_

_Mathilda Bagshot  
Misuse of Magic Office_

Hermione looked at Severus, dumbfounded. He quickly opened the second letter and held it out for both of them.

_Dear Mrs. Hermione Snape,_

_It is with great pleasure I report to you that the Aurors have been recalled from seizing your wand and remanding you into custody. Due to the mitigating circumstances of your recent wartime heroism your breach of the International Wizarding Accord Against the Dark Arts as well as your violation of sections 204.b.34, 713.w.2, and 67.g.243 of the Wizarding Customes and Laws of the United Kingdom have been summarily dismissed. No punitive action will be taken against you._

_Please report to the Head Mugwump of the Wizengamot at 9 o'clock tomorrow morning to have the manipulative aspects of your Suzerain Arrangement bound._

_Please report to the Records Office at 10 o'clock tomorrow morning with Mr. Severus Snape to have your marriage witnessed and duly noted._

_Thank you, and have a pleasant evening,_

_Mathilda Bagshot  
Misuse of Magic Office_

Hermione looked over at Severus. "Bloody hell," she breathed out, taking up the third letter and tearing it open.

_Dear Mr. Severus Snape,_

_It is with great pleasure I report to you that the Aurors have been recalled from seizing your wand and remanding you into custody. Due to the mitigating circumstances of your recent wartime heroism your breach of the International Wizarding Accord Against the Dark Arts as well as your violation of sections 204.b.34, 713.w.2, and 67.g.243 of the Wizarding Customes and Laws of the United Kingdom have been summarily dismissed. No punitive action will be taken against you._

_Please report to the Records Office at 10 o'clock tomorrow morning with Mrs. Hermione Snape to have your marriage witnessed and duly noted._

_Thank you, and have a pleasant evening,_

_Mathilda Bagshot  
Misuse of Magic Office_

Hermione looked up at Severus. "Do you know what they're talking about?"

"No," he said. As she took in his bewildered and astounded face, she believed him utterly.

* End. *

**Author's End Note:**

I made up the _Thaumarasga_ and you can tell, because I mixed my languages. I'm sure properly in canon that would never be done. Thauma is from the Greek for magic. Rasgar is a verb in Spanish for tearing or rending.

A smidgen about a Suzerain Treaty (which I did not make up). Feel free to check it out on Miriam-Webster or wikipedia, which will give you the gist and the history from about the 17th century, though Suzerain Treaties occurred much farther back in history. It's based in the ancient Hittite Suzeraine-Vassal treaties. Simplified, in a Suzerain Treaty, the more powerful sovereign ruler enters into an agreement to protect the interests of a less powerful sovereign ruler and may make certain other promises. The less powerful sovereign ruler agrees to do some action or pay some tribute to the more powerful sovereign ruler. Both remain sovereign over their own interests, and the ruler with less power can dissolve the treaty at any time. (In theory, the one with more power promises to do good things first, and the one with less power responds with gratitude. It's kind of the opposite of extortion.)

My magical version works in a slightly different manner, in that it incorporates the very potential for abuse of power that the non-magic treaty seeks to avoid, by giving the accepting party more power over the giving party, thus creating a suzerain-vassal imbalance. The non-magic version starts with a disparity of power and journeys toward a more equal power balance. The magical version starts with a more equal power balance and travels toward greater disparity.

There was more written of this series, but it died with the latest harddrive crash, so what do you say we end it here? Excellent. :)


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